


MT Inside

by SpitfireRose



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anxiety, Canon dialogue somewhat, Claustrophobia, Game Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Poor Prompto, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 07:24:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12360567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpitfireRose/pseuds/SpitfireRose
Summary: A torturous twist of Prompto's fate in Zegnautus Keep.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Asidian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/gifts).



> A long while back, Kaciart drew this beautiful comic http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/164984926098 born from Asidian's idea of what if poor Prompto had been imprisoned in an MT pod instead of restrained like in the game. The end result is that I'm weak, and *had* to write something for it. Asi also wrote a lovely piece that you can find here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12041790, so double the pain :D

Gralea had been great for the few minutes Prompto had lasted undetected, wasteland of a city crawling with swarms of powerful daemons like some late night zombie apocalypse film. It didn't take long to be overwhelmed by sheer numbers, gunner forced to flee from one infested street to the next, reminisce of prey being hustled into a trap. The doorstep of Zegnautus Keep to be precise, played right into the hands of the enemy, to ‘home sweet home’ as a certain redheaded bastard had put it before everything had gone black.

* * *

The winding corridors are cold, icy blue eyes darting at every twist and turn in attempt to memorize the dungeon’s maze, focusing at the situation at hand sure to spiral into a distracting panic. Vacant cells containing nothing but a chair behind bars are passed by, torture chambers with devices stained of various crimson shades ignored--much to his relief--, abandoned labs littered with decades old research left as is.

The pair of MTs’ metal limbs that clamp him tightly are colder, unyielding to Prompto’s struggles as if he’s no more than a bothersome gnat not worth the effort to squash. Like a wronged criminal sentenced to death, forced to march to his execution and fighting every forward step. Prompto uselessly flails at empty air, boots barely skidding against tile for how he hangs in their rigid hold.

The theatrical words that flow out of The Chancellor are the coldest by far, more chilling than the blistering tundras he’d barely survived, rivaling even Shiva’s arctic might. A smug, sadistic smirk plays on the man’s lips, so casually droning on about the monsters made here with a sort of corrupt fascination that brings shivers down his spine.

It’s a reunion of a home Prompto doesn’t recall and would never consider, given the ‘grand tour’ of a life he was fortunate to have been stolen away from despite the neglectful upbringing by often absent guardians.

“Ah, it would appear we’ve come to the end of our little outing. Your final destination is just in sight.”

“Is it out of this place? ‘Cause reminding you that _I don’t belong here_ is getting old. Things to do, people to see, you know how it is.” Prompto tries to keep steady like he's not scared, the edge in his voice betraying the anxiety warring within.

“Oh, quite but not quite.” Ardyn laughs, because of course he does, looking down at the blond like he’s the mud beneath his boots, about to take immense satisfaction in scraping him off against the floor. “I’d make for a poor host if not to return you to your proper quarters.”

“What’re you--”

It’s a mistake to crane his head to where they’ve been dragging him all this time. His blood freezes, heart halting mid-frantic-beat. For the first time since getting captured, Prompto goes still with eyes impossibly wide.

“ _N--No--!”_

He’d take those empty cells--hell, he’d be _grateful_ to be strapped down in one of those instruments of torture because this-- _this--_

“Come now, it’d be rude not to accept after all those years we’ve kept it safe for you, awaiting the day you’d remember where you truly belong and return to your kin.”

The storage pod’s hatch opens with a sharp ‘hiss’ of hydraulics, entry just big enough for an MT unit with standing room only. Claustrophobia sucker punches Prompto’s churning gut at the sight, breathless and nauseous, efforts to break free rekindled and met with the same fruitless results.

“ _I--I’m not_ one of _them!_ You can’t-- _can’t_ put _me_ in _there!”_

“Now, now. Why would _I_ put you in there when your brethren can do it for me? That would be far more appropriate, don’t you think? Oh, my mistake. MTs don’t have thoughts. MTs follow orders, a trait you sorely lack. Perhaps you’ll grow inspired after some quality time inside.”

The gunslinger’s palms steal purchase at the opening, fingers digging in with all he has to push against the frames like a toddler throwing a tantrum and clinging for dear life. Prompto hasn’t even noticed the tears that’ve been streaming down--ineffective on present company--, begging for anything but _this_ even as unrelenting gauntlets shove at his lower back. Sweet Six, he’d be the guy’s personal servant if it’ll spare him _this_.

Ardyn Izunia just smiles that signature sick, twisted smile, desperate pleas a symphony to his ears.

“This truly is for the best, you know, and there’s no one to blame but yourself after all you've done. Dearest Noct claimed the very same before nearly putting an end to your miserable existence, didn’t he. Ah, such a pity he isn't here to enjoy this.”

Prompto’s grip goes slack, hands forming into fists, posed to whip around and punch the bastard regardless if that’s right--and he’s _not_ right _._ He’s...He's _not._ But the disarming words have done their job, MTs forcing him in the rest the way with an effortless heave, head smacking against a panel at back of the meager niche of space. There’s barely enough room for him to spin around with arms pressed tight at his sides, a last ditch effort to get out of his personal hell’s coffin before---

The door seals shut, taking the artificial light with it and leaving behind suffocating darkness.

 _No. No no no. Nonono, this isn't happening. It's not, it's not._ Trembling fists pound at the uncompromising steel, weakened by the surge of panic that washes over him like a powerful tide dragging him into the sea, riptides wrenching him under the murky depths. Futile pleas rip out of his lungs like they’ve somehow sealed the organs away, and he can’t _breathe_.

Prompto tilts his head back, eyes squeezed shut so hard he sees spots. His teeth clench his bottom lip, great tremor consuming his entire being as a shaky, sharp gulp of cold stagnant air burns at his insides.

It’s a cry unlike anything he’s ever produced, so inhuman and raw, ringing in his ears as it echoes within the tight space, every emotion siphoned into the singular wail that lasts a lifetime. He stumbles back at the force of it, not even half a step colliding his spine with one of the protruding pipes. Blindly turning only has his shoulder smack into another, trembling hands groping the dark for the walls that are far too close to his body as he bumps about. Imagination transforms into his enemy, a role so easily put on when he can’t _see_ , evolving into a fearsome beast with deceitful lies taken as truths.

**_The walls are closing in._ **

Heavy, dizzying breaths throw Prompto further off balance, frantic fists connecting with a corner as he sobs. He throws himself as best he's able, bony shoulders slamming from wall to wall with as much force as a feather duster to a Jabberwock, but persistently desperate nonetheless. Nothing gives, not even a motion of rocking back and forth as if the embedded storage unit could topple over.

Prompto wails aloud again, a pitifully broken sound that's more of a whimpering cry that still renders him breathless. His whole body aches from the useless fit of flailing, swaying and so dangerously lightheaded, panting heavily but never getting enough oxygen.

 ** _Going to run_** **_out of air_** **.**

A deception of imagination, or his frazzled mind has turned traitor. Likely both.

Or maybe it really is true, sealed off entirely from precious fresh air.

Prompto can’t _not_ breathe at that revelation. Hysteria ravages him, adrenaline refueled, and he bangs until his knuckles go numb. Wasting no time, he moves onto hitting as hard as he can with aching palms, fingernails having imprinted crimson crescents into the flesh.

Nothing.

He still can’t breathe, strangled sobs resonating throughout the claustrophobic coffin of his worst fears. A battered hand reaches up from the dark over his mouth, tears spilling across his fingers as well as runny mucus. He falls against solid steel, tasting bile at the back of his throat.

_Th--This isn’t....Gods...it...it is...._

* * *

Prompto dreams he’s trapped, locked far away in a foreign land where none will find him.

Or _wants_ to, rather, not worth the trouble to save his skin from yet another mess he’d gotten himself into and inevitably would again.

Four walls and total darkness greet him when he wakes to nightmare’s reality, sanity faring no better than when he had passed out. Bruised hands press at all sides, unable to recall the judged space from before. Has it always been so small? He doesn’t know, _he doesn’t know._

Prompto’s knuckles are like they’ve played pincushion to a thousand cactuars and their one thousand needles.  He’s not deterred, resuming punching at what he thinks is the same wall that faced his feeble yet frantic frenzy from last time. There’s an immobile pipe that sticks out from the selected corner--unyielding to the gunner’s efforts to pry it free--, residing next to it what feels like a panel of sorts that no amount of clawing at screws will open. Sharp pain tears at a finger, tang of copper filling his nose, and he really doesn’t want to put the pieces together at what’s been torn away.

He still tries, digging at the grooves like a drowning man clinging to anything that he prays will float, but only sinks him further in despair’s clutches. Prompto bites at his bottom lip, teeth indenting sensitive flesh, brain whirring at what the hell he’s going to do in this hell as he holds the now three nail-less fingers against his tattered top. His eyes are stinging, tears threatening to fall at the gods-be-damned agony, pain and tiny closet space too much for coherent thought.

Impulse drenched with panic says he’s going to keep hitting every surface like a fly uselessly ramming against a windowpane, and that’s really all he has to go on.

Prompto yells, too, on the off chance that maybe, _maybe_ Ardyn will relent and put him somewhere that isn’t going to drive him insane in the next whatever seems like an hour. Maybe this’ll be like all those stories where there’s _always_ that one person who can’t stomach the torment the hero endures, and betrays everything to come to their aid even if it means their own demise.

Or he is that one person, and no one will rescue him but himself.

Basically he’s trapped here until he dies then, because he can’t find his way out of a godsdamn box. Cruel imagination snatches the thought, devouring the delicious doubt that doesn’t need altering to be used against his own head.

**_You’re going to die in here._ **

_S-Shut up._

**_All alone._ **

_Shut up!_

**_They’re never coming for you, MT._ **

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Prompto shouts up till his throat goes raw, bleeding fists thrashing at each repetition and screaming in anguish.

He keeps going and going and going until he feels nothing at all.

* * *

Prompto doesn't remember fainting from endless exertion, or if his eyes are even open with how indifferent the darkness is. The passage of time is impossible to tell, only that it drags on and on and on for every minute he isn't free.  

The blond’s still alive, only able to tell for how he hurts too much to be dead. Every nerve in his body aches, groans cracked and hoarse. He’d kill for some water. Light. Anywhere that isn’t fucking here.

None of those luxuries will be his until he gets the hell out.

Prompto bangs away at the walls, wrestles the pipes for the umpteenth time, sacrifices another nail to the panel.

Nothing.

He bites his abused lip to keep from crying, and even that does nothing.

* * *

Prompto wakes up an uncertain amount of time later. Palms press at all sides, small space still too damn small. He’s like an MT, movements robotic without a thought of his own, punishing the same surface with jerky, lifeless motions until unconsciousness overcomes him.

* * *

His eyes open, and all he sees is nothing. Feels nothing. Thinks nothing. Nothing moves, and neither does he.

His body tips forward out of his control, legs jelly beneath him, unable to support his weight any longer without relief.

The darkness grabs him again, pulls him under.

He welcomes it.

* * *

 

Prompto doesn’t wake up.


	2. Chapter 2

_Tsshhh._

The door slides open, and he’s _falling. Real_ air chills tear-stained cheeks, matted tufts of blond hardly disturbed, entire body slumping forward like a corpse to open arms that don’t expect it. The freefall ends abruptly, and everything is so quiet. Soft yet firm. It's a foreign feeling, being held after so very long that it brings ache as much as comfort. The dimmed lights burn sensitive eyes blinking open, half-lidded and gazing into nothing until something dark blocks out the light, illuminating raven locks like a halo. An angel.

“Prompto?” The voice hovering above is hesitant with hope, single word like healing magic for how it snaps him out of the dissociating daze. His name. That's his name they're repeating with care, more concerned with each repetition. Prompto knows that voice, knows that face that comes into focus for all of four seconds before obscured by tears.

“ _N-Nnnn-!_ ” He can't form the male’s name on his tongue, can't get it out of the back of his abused throat, can’t say the name of his once again savior.

Tears of immense relief have him bawling at visual recognition and too damn grateful to care. It’s like a dream too good to be true, desperate for validation as Prompto stretches his arm out, muscles aching with herculean effort for the limb to land in the nest of dark hair with hardly the strength to do anything more. It’s as dirty and unkempt as his own, but so damn soft and _real_ to lacerated fingers that he breaks down further.

“Yeah, yeah, it's me. I'm here. I'm here now, Prompto.” Noctis whispers with a waver in his voice as if trying not to cry and failing miserably, blond cradled so close like everything murmured is a secret kept from the world, just for his ears. “I've got you. I've got you.”

They’re like that for a minute, or a lifetime, Prompto can’t tell. All he’s aware of is Noct rocking them gently, quiet shushing sounds a contrast to the gunner’s heart-wrenching weeping, and sincere promises that he’s going to be okay. He’s not going to be okay, not for a long time if ever, but if Noct says so...he can believe that.

“I’m going to try to-” The Prince catches himself, mentally scolding at the phrase. Prompto doesn’t deserve Noct ‘trying’ to do anything if it means a chance of failing him. Not after all this because he couldn’t tell the damned obvious difference between cherished friend and trickster foe. “I’m _going_ to carry you, okay? Can you put your other arm around me, Prom?”

Prompto _tries_. His body’s as useless as his disfigured hands, and it aches more than anything that he can’t do the simplest task Noct asks of him.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. The one is all right, alright? You just let me know if I’m hurting you, okay, and I’ll figure something else out.” Noct soothes, keeping focus on calming him as much as himself. “Ready?”

Oh, is Prompto beyond ready, broken voice pleading and nodding as best he can with fingers twitching in Noct’s disheveled hair as if to brace himself. He really is like dead weight in determined arms, lifted with the utmost care. Light sears his vision and he whimpers, burying his face in the dark comfort of Noct’s chest.

“There’s dorms not far from-” He means to finish the sentence until midnight skies glimpse at what _here_ is. The inside of the MT pod, bloodied and battered after Six only knows how long Prompto had been imprisoned within, screaming and struggling until reduced to the shattered shell of his once spirited self.

Noctis swears, allows anger for only a second before channeling it at his feet, tearing away from the gruesome scene. He holds Prompto closer, thanks every good grace to have finally found him.

“Guys! Over here! I’ve got him!”

* * *

“Shit, what the hell did they do to him?”

“Doesn’t matter now.”

“The fuck it ‘ _doesn’t matter_.’”

They’re arguing, voices disruptive to the lethargic daze he’s in. Dull turquoise flicker over to the thundering cursing, catching the lunge of a large hand right at his face. Prompto flinches with a yelp, shudder so great that it nearly sends Noct falling back on his ass.

“Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay, Prom, it’s okay.” Noct adjusts to cradle him more protectively to the nonexistent threat, curling Prompto inwards against his chest like one would shield an infant. Gladio swears beneath his breath, hand lingering as if stunned by the blond’s reaction before returning to his side. He shouldn’t be surprised, guilt returning full force as the Shield then turns around without bothering to look over his shoulder.

“Kid needs a safe place. Let’s go.”

“Yes, that would be in all our best interests.” Ignis agrees with tight frown on display, not immune to the worrisome outburst but without the visual picture. His head tilts to the source of soft, ragged gasps wrought with panic, and the frown only deepens. “How is he, Noct?”

“Found him in one of those things they store MTs in.” Prompto trembles, at either the recollection, or because he’s still shaken from Gladio, Noct murmurs assurances all the same before resuming. “His hands are all fucked up from trying to escape. He’s...He’s not doing great at all, Ignis.”

“The sooner we arrive to the dorms to assess Prompto’s condition, the better, then.”

“Y-Yeah.”  

* * *

 

Prompto’s face remains plastered to Noct’s chest, spacing out to steady breathing and rhythmic footsteps. It’s like he’s floating, free of pain, nothing but Noctis. The sound of a door hissing open pulls him out of the thick fog with a cry, once again soothed that he’s safe and it’s okay. He braces himself as best he’s able, holds his breath, waits for the reveal of this to have been an illusion all along, and he’ll wake back up in his tiny metal coffin.

The next Prompto’s vaguely aware of, however, is being lowered and settled on top what’s arguably the softest cot in all Eos, shamelessly whimpering at feeling Noct’s arms briefly beginning to pull away. He can’t make out the response, but his head is lifted and the mattress dips before he’s set back down ontop an even plusher pillow. Nimble fingers thread their way into the chaotic mess of dirtied blond, strokes slow and soothing like trying to calm a frightened animal.

There’s rustling nearby, talking, something being unscrewed.

Noct’s voice hovers over him once more, and he doesn’t understand what’s being asked of him. An arm hooks around taut shoulders, hoists him up, and he hisses at his eyes blearily blinking in the light of the room before clamping shut. Noct says something, an accented tone giving a short reply, and plastic slides over his face. The lights are bearable when prodded to open his eyes, squinting through the shades but still too far gone to be aware of anything. The hard plastic of a bottle’s edge is pressed gently on his bottom lip, and Prompto instinctively goes to grab it except his hands aren’t working. Something’s keeping them at his sides with little force, aching wrists massaged with more careful fingers, and he doesn’t fight it.

“Just drink, okay?”

Prompto doesn’t need to be told twice, greedily gulping down the liquid. He coughs, sputters, pitifully whining when the water’s taken away to pat his back until it subsides. The bottle returns much slower, lesson learned, and the accented voice says he must eat something as well.

Torn pieces of an energy bar are popped into his mouth one at a time, waiting until chewed and swallowed before he’s allowed another. It tastes both like shit, and the best thing he’s eaten in too long a time. Prompto’s face is wiped like an infant’s having finished a spoonfed meal and he’s too tired to really be embarrassed before settled back down. The hand’s back and carding soothingly through his hair, accompanied by tender phrases he can’t decipher within the enveloping embrace of unconsciousness, but are effective nonetheless.

Prompto’s asleep within seconds.

* * *

 “...kid’s lucky...get my hands on that...”

“He’ll be...won’t he...”

“...best focus now on...”

Snippets of hushed conversation flow through his ears, but he doesn’t stir for how his body refuses to move as if paralyzed. Prompto drifts between the two realms, not quite awake but not entirely asleep either, companions oblivious to their listless charge. He could stay like this forever, relaxed beyond contentment at the continued fingers brushing in disheveled blond locks, thinking of little else besides how nice everything is despite immobility.

Discomfort creeps in the longer he lies on the cot from eons away, no longer able to be naively ignored. His throat is uncomfortably dry, muscles aching from head to toe, and hands feeling odd. Not...unpleasant, but the telltale sting of curatives is perturbing, hardly able to feel anything else save for stiffness as if wrapped. His left is, draped across his stomach, and calloused skin holds his right with the utmost care as if delicate, undoubtedly receiving the same treatment.

Something’s...Something’s not...

Azure orbs open just a crack to shaded vision, blinking past the crusty buildup encasing heavy eyelids. Prompto stares ahead, brain processing at an all-time low to finally recognizing the behemoth figure hunched over before him, partially bandaged hand seeming to vanish within the swordsman’s own.

_S’Gladio._ He determines to himself, squinting at the strangely solemn expression on the Shield’s face as likely yet another threat is muttered beneath his breath. Crudely shaped white bandages doused in what Prompto can only assume is the curative is set across bruised knuckles, and he bites at his busted lip against the healing sting.

Something doesn’t _feel_ right.

It stares at him right in the face then, ugly black ink bared to all, exposed without the concealing mask of bracelets.

All weariness is quickly forgotten as Prompto releases a startling cry out of his control, alarming the others as the worrying sound escalates. Gladio releases the hand immediately as if burned, set on the cot as not to hurt him, but he’s squirming with all the adrenaline fuel his body can muster to get off the firm mattress and _away_.

_They know._ The terrifying concept repeats over and over like a dooming chant, heart pounding heavily like a bass drum. Prompto doesn’t make it far at all, feeble body more like ineffectively wiggling as Noct cautiously tries to keep him from rolling off his lap before he falls from the bed and hurts himself further. Restraining him in place, surely, to deliver the capital punishment the traitor’s eluded for so long.

They’re cursing him, he’s sure they are, damning his existence as he shudders and gulps for air in dangerously hyperventilating gasps. Gladio’s gone, replaced by Ignis, and he looks so intimidating even without the deadly glares he once could give. The Advisor’s talking quietly but with authoritative order that won’t be ignored.

“What is the matter, Prompto?” Ignis asks, and the inflection is all wrong. There’s no mocking in his tone like they know damn well what the liar’s done to deserve the fate coming to him. No anger, no hate, just a firmness...of...of. It can’t be concern, it can’t be. They _know._

“ _Wr--Wrist._ ” Is all the cloned blond son of a bastard can whimper out.

A beat of silence as they decipher the one word response, and he tenses for what he doesn’t know. Something awful.

“Shit, is it broken? I’ll get another potion--”

“Prom, I’m so sorry, I didn’t--”

_Worry._

That can’t be right. _They_ **_know._ **

**Don’t they?**

“ _No, no, no!_ ” Prompto shakes, trembles like a child that’s been caught by their parents and frightened out of their wits, and Noct’s arms still keep firm to prevent him from escaping. He shuts his eyes to withdraw from the nightmare instead, useless tears pooling down his cheeks. “You _know._ ”

The quiet goes on too long. Prompto opens his eyes, expects the pretend concern to melt away into true disgust and rightful rejection.

But Gladio’s back in his darkened vision, curative in hand as he’s kneeling next to Ignis before him. The giant’s expression is soft, gentleness palpable, and even the Advisor shares the same with a worrisome frown upon his scarred lips as pondering a completed puzzle that doesn’t make sense.

“I--I’m one of _them._ ” Prompto blubbers, tries to keep steady like he’s a broken record that’s recited the phrases for the day he had prayed would never come. “MTs’ve got those codeprints...just like I do. Turns out, I--I’m one of them. I knew--I _always_ knew. I _knew_ I was lying not only to you but also myself, and...and still...”

He’s going off script, squeezes his eyes closed because he can’t bear the looks on their wrongly worried faces and especially not after his traitorous mouth has its final say.

“You guys are like...the only friends...I’ve ever known. More than that. You’ve all-all done so much for me, nothing I ever did to deserve even though I’m not Luci-”

“Bullshit.” Noctis declares above him without an ounce of hesitation, and Prompto flinches, despising how he awaits the betrayal that’s yet to occur. He dares to look up into midnight blue orbs, and uncovers nothing but honest sincerity for someone that’s pieced Ardyn’s obvious hints, needless clues, and spent sleepless nights searching for the boy laying on the cot with his head on his lap. “Since when does where you come from matter to you? You _are_ Lucian. You’re _Prompto._ You never once treated me as a prince.”

Gladio and Ignis chime in their agreement with added teases, but he can’t make them out for the unbelievable daze he’s trapped in, like this is some dream come true yet again.

“You’re one of us, Prompto. You always have been. We love you.” Someone, or maybe all of them says, before his resolve crumbles and he brokenly sobs. They don’t gather him in their arms for a group hug out of concern for his physical well-being, but gentle hands find safe spots and apply grounding pressure and truthful assurances.

Prompto cries until he has nothing left, just a numb shell that still can’t comprehend that this is all real. He should drink before they allow him rest, he detects Ignis advising, and he downs the whole bottle offered to his lips with assistance. He’s beyond exhausted that they’ll have to come up with a new word to describe it. The immense swell of relief that leaves one so thoroughly drained when unflinchingly accepted by caring friends after deceiving them about one’s origins, and experiencing one’s phobias before aforementioned friends had come to the rescue.

Gladio’s retrieved his bracelets off the nightstand, mentions something that he can have them back if it’s really going to bother him that much.

Tired. Yeah. That’ll do. Prompto’s tired of hiding what he is, and has done enough of it for however hellishly long he was contained. He shakes his head, minimal action having spoken enough for him as the swordsman sets them aside and takes his half-bandaged right hand back with unconditional tenderness before resuming his work.

“Don’t tell Iggy that’s one of my shirts he cut up.” The Prince murmurs as if it’s a great secret, to which Ignis snorts and replies rather dryly that he was well aware of it and Noct needn’t whisper.

It’s almost like things are back to how they once were, and Gladio playfully remarks that he’ll simply have to make it up to him.

“ _S-Sorry._ ”

“Not you, Prom.” Noct quickly clarifies, Six knowing how much he owes the blond, but for another time when it’s just the two of them. It’s difficult enough to express his emotions with both Shield and Advisor present. “No apologies from you, okay? If you want to make up at all, just focus on resting, all right?”

“Indeed. Do try to get some sleep.”

“I don’t want to rush your recovery, but I want us out as soon as you’re ready.”

Prompto nods, albeit weakly with easily closed eyes, and someone cautiously removes the shades with a kiss to his forehead before careful fingers thread his hair.

“You’re safe, don’t worry.” Noctis vows, and another kiss lightly presses his temple. “I’ll always be right here, ever at your side.”

 


End file.
